Laundry Day
by HellsBells
Summary: Hermione Granger is depressed - being dumped three times in the same month can do that to a person. Her best friends are happy and are oblivious to her impending doom of weighing over 80 kilos. But then someone shows up and her world is turned upside down
1. Chocolate Ice Cream

Do I have some invisible beam of light attached to my head that attracts incredible losers? I have some inkling there is something wrong with me. My therapist seems to think so too. I told her the other day that the last three men I've dated have cheated on me, with leggy blondes who have the IQ of a peanut. 

   Of course, she didn't reply to this. She just 'hmm'd' and wrote some notes down on her sad pink notebook. I'd give anything to be that notebook. It knows everyone's secrets – I'd kill to see what Dr. Laura/Oprah/Phil writes about me. Actually her name is Dr. Rebecchi, but no one wants to hear your therapist's name is Dr. Rebecchi – actually, no one wants to hear you have a therapist. 

   Dr. Laura/Oprah/Phil likes to chew on her one pound twenty pen, with a fluffy Pomeranian type pink fuzz ball on the end. That pen is even more sad then her notebook. I don't think she could've splurged an extra four pounds and bought something that didn't look like my grandmother's psychotic dog. But this woman's supposed to find the root of my man problem, so I guess it doesn't matter if her house looks pink, cheap and nasty. 

   Last Tuesday, Dr. Laura/Oprah/Phil asked what my childhood was like. I couldn't honestly tell her, of course. If I did – she'd probably think I was more weird and crazy than she thought I was. I told her I attended a boarding school just outside of town, and that our family pet died when I was fifteen. My best friends were boys, and one of them was quite famous in our town. I also told her I had this looming evil ready to pounce when the time was right, and my childhood was quite traumatic. I believe I made quite a convincing performance, but she didn't write anything in her notebook which irked me a little. She probably thought my made-up childhood wasn't interesting enough for her sad and pathetic bargain bin notebook. 

   Ginny thinks it's hilarious I have a therapist. She doesn't quite get my man problem. But I guess that's just Ginny. Her idea of a deep and meaningful relationship is having sex in more than three places in the space of two weeks. I think she's quite lucky. She doesn't give a flinging-flanging yellow jacket if they dump her. She'll just walk right into a nightclub and leave with a Bobby or a Dylan or a Tad or a Steve. One-night stands are her specialty. Being crushed like a bug under Cinderella slippers is my specialty. 

   I called Harry the other day, and he's happy. He's got a girlfriend (name's Sandy or Rizzo or some _Grease/70's type name) and I hate him for it. He's happy when I'm sad and lonely, and he's sad and lonely when I'm happy. Why can't I be happy for one of my best friends? I'm such a horrible person. I'll have to tell Dr. Not Much Fucking Help next session. It'll be something to tell the cats when she gets home. _

   Its three weeks after Christmas, and I can't for the life of me be bothered to get up and look at the calendar. I've got my sad/pathetic/recently dumped slippers on. I decided it would be something to pass onto my children. I don't have any family heirlooms to give them, and I don't think they'll appreciate the Karma Sutra until they're at least eighteen. I have my children's names picked up thanks very much. I don't find The Gigantic Book of Baby's Names much help. The problem is its too big. They should write a more accessible book for the Hermione Granger types. Something like The Slightly Smaller Book For People Who Can't Be Bothered Reading Five-Hundred Pages. That would be much better. 

   Well, anyway I dropped a name for a girl and boy starting from each letter of the alphabet. There was Angelica and Austin, and Bridget and Brutus (thank God I didn't pick that one) and Claire and Carl … well, anyway. I picked one girl's name and one boy's name and its official. My children will be called Drew and Jessica. They are not bad names considering I have absolutely no one in my family called Drew or Jessica. There's also the small matter of sperm. I have no boyfriend and I'm not planning on getting one anytime soon. Ginny tried to set me up with Bobby the other day. It all ended in tears since Bobby naturally forgot all about me and proceeded to fuck Ginny senseless on the couch. That sort of thing does depress you, you know. 

   I'm twenty-four-years-old, and I can't figure out why I cannot successfully date someone without being knocked off for a size six with Barbie accessories. I want to get married and have children some day, and it can really get you down when you get dumped three times in one month. 

   Someone's knocking on my door. "Who is it?" I call. 

   "Ron." 

   "Go away." 

   "Why?" 

   "Because you're male and males right now are stupid and retarded." 

   "George dumped you?" 

   "Do not remind me!" I say, choking back tears. 

   "Herm, George was a fuckwit," he says. 

   "How can you say that?" I ask. 

   "Easy. I just open my mouth and words come out." 

   "Ha ha," I say. "Did anyone ever tell you, you should be a comedian?" 

   "Did anyone ever tell you how to open a door?" 

   "You know where the knob is." 

   I can hear him twisting it. "It's locked." 

   "I know." 

   "Hermione …" 

   "Key's under the doormat," I tell him. 

   "That's not very safe," he says. 

   "Oh please, you're not my mother." 

   "I bloody well hope not," he says. 

   "Get in here, you arse," I say. 

   He does and I hug him. "Is it wrong I'm totally aroused by this?" he asks me. I hit him. Barstard. "Why are you here?" 

   "Just came to see my favourite girl." 

   "I thought Pussy was your favourite girl," I say. 

   "Her name's not Pussy." 

   "I know, but Persephone is such a hard name to say." 

   "You're evil," he tells me. 

   "I'm depressed," I sigh. 

   We sit down. "How depressed?" he asks me. 

   "So depressed that if someone told me something equally depressing I could not possibly be depressed anymore." 

   "Malfoy's in town." 

   "What?" I scream, getting to my feet. "Why? He hates Muggles." 

   "I don't know. His dad just carked it, so he's moving down here for something different, I suppose." 

   "How do you know?" I say, eyeing him suspiciously. 

   "Saw it in _The Daily Prophet this morning." _

   "And how are those old dickwads going?" I ask. 

   "Same as always." 

   "Mmm." 

   "Oh, how's Ginny doing?" he asks. 

   I clear my throat as I see a condom wrapper near my feet. I quickly kick it under the couch, and smile at him. "Great." 

   "Good. Mum's having a fit with her living in a Muggle city. She doesn't mind me here though. Weird, isn't it?" 

   I nod. 

   "Gotta go, Herm," he says suddenly. "I'll see you soon." He kisses me on the cheek. "Look after yourself, eh?" I smile weakly as he quietly closes the front door behind him. I always had a feeling Malfoy had some special talent, and that was getting me fat since this severe depression has made me crave chocolate ice cream. Dr. Face Looks Like My Bare Behind will be interested in this I reck. Her and her sad, little pink notebook. 


	2. SFEL

"Hello, Dr. Rebecchi," I say politely as I sit down. 

   "Hello, Hermione," she smiles at me. I try my hardest not to look disgusted – she looks like she slept with a coat hanger in her mouth. "How was your day?" 

  "Fine," I say. 

   "Excellent." She takes out her little pink notebook, and poises the pen over the paper. "I would to get to know you better today, Hermione. I would like you to tell me about your friends." 

   I raise my eyebrows. "_My friends?" _

   She nods. Well, she sort of bows her head which makes me feel very Queen-ish. I decide to tell her. "I have three very close friends," I begin, saying it very slowly so she can't possibly miss anything. "Ginny, Ron and Harry, I known Harry and Ron since I was eleven and I've known Ginny since I was twelve." 

   "How did you meet them?" Dr. Hanger Face asks me. 

   "School," I say as if it were the obvious answer. Because to me it was – I couldn't imagine meeting any of them outside of Hogwarts. 

   "Right … that boarding school?" says Dr. Drooling Currently. "What was the name of your school?" 

   I stare at her. "I thought we were talking about my friends." 

   "We are," she said, "but since you met them at school …" 

   I nod at her, my mouth suddenly feeling dry. "School For Emerging Lesbians," I blurt out. I really need to learn how to keep my mouth shut. 

   Dr. Looking at Me As If I'm Chicken's eyes widen. "Excuse me?" 

   "Well, of course," I say, my mouth running of its own accord at the moment. "I can't say that all the time. So, I shorten it down to S.F.E.L." 

   "Sfel?" she asks. 

   "No," I sigh dramatically, "S.F.E.L." 

   "Right," says Dr. Possibly Number One _EastEnders Fan. She composes herself. "You met two male friends at a lesbian school?" _

   "Harry and Ron – male?" I laugh as if it's the funniest thing Britney Spears' attempt at acting. "No. No. They like to have masculine names, you know. Harriet and … Ronelda are their real names." 

   "Ronelda?" she repeats. "That's an interesting name." 

   "Yeah … I agree. His mum got it from The Slightly Smaller Book For People Who Can't Be Bothered Reading Five-Hundred Pages," I tell her. 

   Dr. Not Believing a Word of My Bullshit 'hmm's' and writes down something in her notebook I suspect is liar. "I understand you are not a lesbian, Hermione," she says. "Nor your friend, Ginny." 

   "Oh, yeah," I say, "we actually went to our lessons … but sadly Harriet and Ronelda skipped one too many lessons …" I wipe my eyes, as if this is very emotional for me to say. It's not. 

   "Hermione Granger, how old are you?" asks Dr. I'm Feeling Isn't Feeling The Love Vibe Here. 

   "Twenty-four," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. 

   "Well, Twenty-Four, I'm Forty-Two. Welcome to the wonderful world of adulthood." She smirks. 

   I realise she's been smart with me, the uptight, horny bitch. I do admire her though; I mean how many people can give you a satisfactory smirk after admitting they were born in the sixties? 

   "You're old," I note. Dr. Smirk-A-Lot's smirk is wiped off her face. I grin at her. I'm winning. 

   "I'm wise," Dr. Can't Be Fucked Giving Her a Name says. "I'm older and wiser." 

   I snort. Well, I don't really mean to, but it kind of comes out. I might as well have stuck my fingers up my arse, twirled them around, held in front of her face and said, "Smell my fingers," at the face she was pulling. It reminded strongly of a very rich woman who looked like she had a load of shit under her nose. I do feel sorry for them sometimes – you really do never where their nose has just been. 

   "Hermione, I feel you are too immature to attend these sessions. I'm going to recommend you to Dr. Malfoy –," 

   "What?" 

   "Dr. Malfoy," she says, "I know he sounds a tab overbearing but he really is a fantastic therapist." 

   The horror of Draco Malfoy learning all about the wonder of mwah has finally settled as I realise something: he's a therapist. He's in a Muggle profession. His dad probably died of shock when he heard. And this isn't an overnight thing. He must have spent years at Muggle universities. And not a single person in the wizarding world knows – except me. This is absolutely fanbloodytastic. 

   I stand up. "Well, Dr. Who Has Been Absolutely No Fucking Help Whatsoever, I'm glad we met. This shows me where to go when I want a substitute for a good kick in the rear. Toodles." I waltz out the room, grinning from ear to ear. That would be the last time I would see her sorry arse … oh, shit – hang on. 

   "Forgot my handbag," I mutter as I enter her office again. 

   "I know," she says quietly. 

   I waltz out the room for the second time, hoping more than anything else that Malfoy has a fluffy, pink notebook. 


End file.
